Robin Chapman posts a poem, most days, from fellow poets with one of her watercolors.

6/03/2013

American Life in Poetry: Column 428BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Lots of us find ourselves under the interested fingers of dermatologists, who prosper on the fun we once had out in the sun. Here George Bilgere of Ohio, one of our most amusing American poets, sits back in his skin doctor’s chair and reminisces about a party that took place years ago.

Basal Cell

The sun is still burning in my skineven though it set half-an-hour ago,and Cindy and Bob and Bev and Johnare pulling on their sweatshirtsand gathering around the fire pit.

John hands me a cold oneand now Bev comes into my armsand I can feel the sun’s heat,and taste the Pacific on her cheek.

I am not in Vietnam,nor is John or Bob, becauseour deferments came through,and we get to remain boysfor at least another summerlike this one in Santa Cruz,surfing the afternoons in a sweetblue dream I’m remembering now,

as the nurse puts my cheek to sleep,and the doctor begins to burnthose summers away.